


The Scorched Flower of Death Left Unsullied

by Crowley (Tay_Cipher7)



Category: The Magicians (TV)
Genre: Angst, Canonical Character Death, Confessions, Hurt No Comfort, Implied/Referenced Suicide, I’ll die mad, M/M, Multi, No beta we die like... oh, Spoilers, mentions of depression
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-04-09
Updated: 2020-04-09
Packaged: 2021-03-02 02:15:09
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 935
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23557423
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Tay_Cipher7/pseuds/Crowley
Summary: “He told me once,” Margo said, her voice gone low and quiet, just above a whisper, “that no matter what—no matter the pain he grew numb to, the heartache he learned to suppress—that he would give his soul for us, for you.”// Or: When the reality on how bad Eliot and the others fucked up finally hits, and how fixing it feels impossible.
Relationships: Past Quentin Coldwater/Alice Quinn (mentioned), Quentin Coldwater & Margo Hanson, Quentin Coldwater/Eliot Waugh
Kudos: 28





	The Scorched Flower of Death Left Unsullied

**Author's Note:**

> I wrote this the day I finished the episode where Q died. I was sad and angry. Here’s something that was born from it.

* * *

  
The bitter, all-encompassing chill of the winter air bit harshly through the layers of his thick, black pea-coat. The same one Quentin gave him for his birthday so many years ago. 

He remembers the quiet exchange between them that day. He remembers it as if it only just happened. He remembers a soft, delicate smile. He remembers a gentle kiss against chilled skin.  He remembers that the kiss was not one shared between frozen lips—never between lips, Quentin would have never let himself out of fear and self-deprecation. But Eliot knew this and yet he continued to do nothing in regards; do nothing to remedy it. Instead, he just pressed his own lips against the cool, smooth skin of the shorter man’s forehead, and left him with nothing but a whispered, absent, _‘thanks,’_ as if it had been nothing more than a passing remark.

The sick weight of death still lingered in the air, mixing with the suffocating, snowy breeze.  


“Not when we have a choice,” Margo quoted, staring off the balcony from her place next to him. “You really fucked that one up, didn’t you?” She sneered, but it held a shattered, bitter quality—a humourless laugh followed it.

He tried to keep his voice steady, “I know—.”

“ _Gods _ , Eliot!” She interrupted, slamming her leather-clad hands against the hard, frozen surface of the stone railing, “He was broken! We all  _ broke _ him, Eliot. And then we just stared at the pieces and waited to see what would happen next.” Margo spat, she likely did so with extra conviction in hopes of covering up the helpless sob that escaped right after. “How could we have called ourselves his  _friends_ _?_ How could you have said you loved him? Neither were enough to make anyone of us _do _ anything!”

And Gods didn’t that hurt. It hurt more to know she was right, and that now there is nowhere left for them all to go. Nothing left to ignore or ‘study’ in morbid fascination. Their friend, their anomaly— the love of his miserable, cowardly life —now gone. Lost and consumed by death, the weight of depression and self-loathing leading to suicide under the weak guise of ‘self-sacrifice’. Now, they couldn’t even make it up to Quentin. Couldn’t try to mend what they had frayed—like a string struck with a dull knife until it snapped.

Eliot blinked the damp from his eyes, the moisture freezing against his cheeks. This hopelessness; this all-encompassing feeling of bitter loneliness and shame—was this how Q felt?

Eliot’s brow pinched, and his lips thinned. _No_ , he thought. _No, what Quentin felt would have been much worse, so much worse. Nothing any of his so-called ‘friends’ could have possibly hoped to comprehend._

“He loved you,” Margo whispered, sad andlost. Her hands curled in fists so tight that the leather could be heard creaking as it rubbed together.  


Eliot’s head shot up at that, shaking him away from his mind’s resentful queries; the blood in his ears making his head ring.

“What?” He croaked breathlessly.

Margo scowled at him, nose scrunching up with undisguised distain. “Don’t say ‘ _what?_ ’,” she snapped. “You already knew that! He loved you with everything he had. He loved you despite his heart being so utterly _shattered_ from your passive rejections, like he meant _nothing_ and _everything_ at the same time.”  


Eliot felt his eyes widen and his heart twist violently behind his aching ribs.

She spoke again, dark and bitter, “The _only_ reason he was ever with Alice was because he thought it’s what he deserved; the only thing he could get; the only thing he was _allowed_.” Margo looked away, glaring down at her clenched hands, her words dripping with venom. “But he always looked at _you_. Looked at you like were the only thing he could see when you waltzed into a room.” She glared at him, “You would always assume what he thought of you. What he desired. With him, you only ever assumed and it left you a coward and him heartbroken.”

Margo let out a harsh, frustrated sigh, turning back towards the balcony entrance; not even sparing a second glance at the guilt that overcame Eliot’s features.

“He told me once,” she said, her voice gone low and quiet, just above a whisper, “that no matter what—no matter the pain he grew numb to, the heartache he learned to suppress—that he would give his _soul_ for us, for _you_.” _  
_

She paused for a moment, seemingly lost in thought. She continued after a breath _, “_ He said, _‘As long as we were happy_ , _fulfilled in life, and living on_ ,’ that he could die knowing he wouldn’t be missed, and that we would all be fine and free of his burden.”  


Margo went completely quiet after that. Seemingly unwilling to continue whatever was left begging to be said. It took about an incense before she left; her dark brows pinched tight, and a deep frown set on her face. Her shoulders were set with a facade of confidence and natural aloof air. As if there was nothing left in the world that could break her down. 

And so Eliot stood there there. Frozen still like a marble statue in the crisp wind of winter. He stood there in reluctant shock. In horror. In sordid heartache. In bitter, _agonising_ acceptance.

He, too, left the balcony. There was nothing here left for him but to freeze. The spiral of his thoughts and the ache in his veins will spin new threads of fate, ones that he could only beg won’t leave him as torn apart.

* * *

**Author's Note:**

> \+ The length and thickness of an incense stick determines how long it will burn. There are sticks that burn 15 min, 30-40 min, 1 hour, etc. In this case, I’m using one stick to represent 5 minuets.
> 
> \+ No Beta; just decided to post it because I didn’t want it shoved into the depths of my “completed but to never see the light of day” files.
> 
> I love comments and kudos :)


End file.
